Pauline was alone again. She sighed and stared quietly at the water as it lapped against the dock. A quiet ache was stirred out of her bones by the December chill and she wished she could bundle up and disappear out across the water. She didn’t have a boat anymore though, the dock wasn’t serving any purpose other than a place for the water to lap and for an old woman to stand and ache and reminisce. The wood had long ago rotted and decayed, it was likely the trees her first husband had felled to build the dock had been rotten to begin with. Despite the inherent flaws, the dock continued to stand through the sour west coast weather, and as long as it stood Pauline had no intention of tearing it down.
Her first husband had been Harold and he’d been Pauline’s high-school sweetheart. He’d been a very handsome and debonair man, one raised in a world of gentlemen and ladies. He’d been exceptionally loving to Pauline, and she missed him with every fiber of her being. She’d waited by the phone for days after his disappearance, but she never heard anything about him or from him again. Friends and family came to console her. They’d appear at her doorstep one-by-one, then all leave at the same time as though they had been blown away by a mighty wind. They all had the same questions, and she always had the same answers. Many of them tried to gently ask Pauline if she suspected that Harold might have taken his own life, and Pauline told them that their accusations were preposterous and that Harold was an exceptionally happy man. She knew he had though, there was simply no other explanation. People don’t simply vanish into thin air, it’s just not the way things happen anymore.
She’d been quite a mess after her grieving was over. She’d hurled Harold’s possessions against walls and through windows and out into the lake where his body likely lay. She’d gathered all their photos and thrown them in the fireplace along with the empty bottle of red wine she’d opened that morning. She and Harold had spent many evenings sitting in-front of their cobblestone hearth. It had been in front of the fire that they’d first kissed after they had officially bought the house, and it had been where they’d slept the same night. She remembered watching the flames, watching the wood that Harold had cut and stacked himself become coals then ashes, nothing like the photographs she’d burned after he died. The photos would ignite then rapidly be reduced to a thin black film that the wind could pick up at any moment. She never used the fireplace after that, she’d drove into the city and bought sweaters instead.
With the spring came a second suitor; a Jewish broker named Eli. He and Pauline romanced quickly despite Pauline’s fresh wounds, there were only two weeks between their first date and the evening when he’d proposed to her over the telephone while he was on business in Siam. He moved in with Pauline, the romance of the lake-house was too much for them to forsake. They’d renovated the house together, purged the place of what remained of Harold after Pauline’s initial sweep. They filled the place with the essence of Eli and Pauline, and for the first time in months Pauline had felt like she was ready to live again. Three weeks after the wedding, Pauline found out she was pregnant.
Harold and Pauline had conceived once before his disappearance, it was an accident that they’d welcomed with open arms. They'd gone out onto the ocean to celebrate when they heard the news and they'd kissed and sang and made love beneath a warm July moon. Pauline followed every doctor’s order to the most minute detail and rested her body in preparation. Harold built a crib and painted a nursery and did all the things that he’d been told a good father should do to prepare for a child. They decided not to find out the sex so they bought only neutral clothes and painted the nursery a gentle green. It wasn’t until the second trimester that the complication happened. The doctors couldn’t determine what caused it and neither could Pauline. All that anybody knew was that one morning Pauline woke with blood in the sheets and the next morning the sheets as well as a hand-made rocking horse, crib and mobile were thrown in the furnace.
Pauline didn’t tell Eli about the pregnancy. Life had never shown any intention of kindness to her and she didn’t foresee any coming in the future. She tried to continue through the days like nothing had changed. She continued to smile and laugh with Eli, and she still let him make love to her between the pristine, new sheets they’d purchased together. But everywhere she went a quiet voice followed her. It was subtle at first, but as the days marched on it’s volume and frequency increased. “He never has to know,” It whispered, “say you’re going for groceries and come back with less than you left with.”
Pauline endured for a month before it became too much for her, on a cold evening in the month of May. Eli had taken her out onto the sea in the luxurious new boat they’d purchased a few weeks before. Clouds were moving in on the horizon, but otherwise the night was clear and the moon was full and pale. The boat floated effortlessly through the waves, Eli had killed the engine and they were just drifting on the currents. The waves on the ocean lapped at the boat, the only sound between Eli and Pauline. The undulations, though quiet, formed a barrier which divided them; a wall strictly confined to Pauline's mind.
Pauline wished she could have been better for Eli, like she had been with Harold. There had been so much love between them, even after the death of their child. In fact, the death had brought them closer together. They were bound by their shared sadness; a sadness nobody but them could ever truly comprehend. It was a foolish thing; to be bound by sadness, but it was a binding nonetheless. There was such understanding between them, there were no secrets. There was simply no need for secrets, nothing either of them could do could ever match the pain of losing their child. The only thing that one of them could ever have done to hurt the other was leave.
"I wish I was the moon tonight." Pauline said quietly to Eli as he poured her a shallow glass of wine. He looked up curiously.
"What do you mean? Why the moon?" He replied, looking up at the pale, cold moon.
"Why would anyone want to be anything other than the moon, Eli? Just look at it." She smiled, but it only made her look more sad. "It seems cold and lovely from a distance, but as you draw closer it grows imperfect and cratered."
"Why would anyone want to be imperfect up-close?" Eli interrupted. Pauline wasn't irritated by it, Eli was the kind of man who needed to orate his thoughts immediately and she’d accepted this.
"It's the craters and imperfections of the moon that make it beautiful. The meteors that made them have crumbled to dust, but the moon is still standing." Pauline sighed longingly towards the sky. Eli snickered politely, drawing Pauline’s eyes from the sky and back to the kind face of her husband. "What's funny about that?" Eli blushed and waved his hand showing he meant no offense.
"It's nothing, but doesn't that sound familiar to you?" He asked. Pauline furrowed her brow and motioned for him to continue. "Polly, you've just described yourself. Don't misunderstand me; you're a beautiful woman in every sense, but it’s undeniable that you still wear your tragedy like a crown of thorns. I don’t mean that you’re depressing to be around, just that your sadness has left a mark on you. I didn’t marry you despite the emotional scars left by your husband, but because of the wonderful woman that has been born from them." It was clear that Eli was sincere even if he wasn’t really making sense to Pauline. She didn't know what to say, her mouth hung open like dummy as she groped for words to express what she was feeling. She tried to articulate, but the air caught in her throat and she fell into shallow hiccoughing sobs. The boat rocked wildly as Eli rushed to her side.
"Eli... I've been terribly unfair to you." Pauline wept. "It’s all terribly unfair." Her fingers dug into his coat and she pulled her face into his breast. "These scars don't make me beautiful, Eli. They only serve as reminders that pain follows me wherever I go. The moon is cold and stoic, and despite the scars it doesn’t... I see him in you, Eli! I see him in you and it's so painful that sometimes I can't even look at you." Pauline cried into his chest. "Then you'll look at me, and I can feel the love radiating like waves out from you, and I'm just filled with terror that I can't love you back." Eli sat silently and Pauline continued to weep quietly against him.
"Polly," Eli whispered, "you could tell me you'd never love me and I'd still love you. You could stab me through the heart with a fireplace poker and I'd still love you. You're the best thing in my life, Pauline. Any future that you aren't in is a future that could never possibly be something better."
"I want to be your husband for as long as you'll have me. I want to grow old with you and be the one who's there when you need someone. I want to be the father to the child inside you." Pauline opened her mouth to interject, but Eli continued. "Even a fool could see it Pauline; you glow."
"Oh, Eli." Pauline gasped, her lips finally parting into a smile. "Oh, Eli... I really have been a fool." She whispered then pulled herself up to his face and kissed him hard on the mouth.
After that night Pauline and Eli began to connect on a level they hadn’t before. It was so apparent to each of them how well they were understood by the other. It’s not to say they didn’t need to work at loving each other, they fought and disagreed as is to be expected. But through all the conflict they always understood each other and knew their love was mutual. Eight months after the night on the water, Pauline gave birth to a beautiful young girl named Penelope.
They raised her and cared for her until she had grown up and blown away on a changing wind that swept her far to the East. Pauline and Eli had only had a year together before Penelope arrived, and they had only one year together after she left. One grey November morning, Eli was pouring a glass of orange juice into what had always been his favourite cup when a traitorous vein burst in his head. Pauline found him a few minutes after he’d passed, his flannel bath-robe soaking in the spilled orange juice and shattered glass.
Penelope had come home to grieve with her mother, but by the time she arrived Pauline had gone. As the officials searched the area for the body of her Mother, Penelope couldn’t help but smile despite her devastation. She knew they’d never find her Mother, not even if the combed the lake and the forest and the attics for a year. The police didn’t believe her though, they didn’t believe that a woman could simply disappear into a cold November morning. But Penelope had been taught better than that.


Erin is leaving Comox today! Everyone say bye to him!

Sometimes motion

There's a fault line rumbling, growling,screaming at me to run out of the way before the earth and rock tear open and devour me entirely.
I'd yell back at it, but when you realize something really is impossible, that it's never going to work out the way you think it needs to, there are no words in all the dictionaries in the universe to form a sentence that would describe that.
I repeat in my head "sometimes motion is the only thing that keeps us alive", and hope that maybe we'd be better off if that were true. I'll keep believing it. I'll keep running,sprinting, walking,crawling. Keep moving around until the sidewalks crumble , until my feet are blistered, until I've pushed myself so far past all of this craziness that there is no earth.No ground. No foundation left to destroy me. I'll be baseless. There will be no ground to catch up on.
I'll be caught up.


Up and Out

She woke up next to a bag of thawed and mushy corn. All the frost had spent the night next to her body, slowly turning into water and creeping into the fibres of her blanket and her sweater. Her alarm clock boomed and echoed in her ears, telling her to wake up and change out of her wet sweater. She hit snooze and slept.
She woke up and called four phone numbers telling stretched truths about a burnt and blistered hand. She wanted a day off. She fell back into bed, in her damp sweater and damp blanket, and she slept until 2:14 in the afternoon.
She woke up and changed her clothes, brushed her hair and her teeth, and set out on an adventure. The cold air fell across the tops of her feet, which were open to the winter. She liked the idea of open shoes and no socks in late December. She liked what this city and it's chinooks allowed her to do. Little plastic and metal contraptions sat in her ears, whispering stories to her, and she pretended a camera was following her. Her shoes were stretched from other's feet, and she clicked the heels against the pavement, turning her feet inward and practicing strutting without making noise. She hated when she made too much noise. Everyone always told her that she's too loud.

She walked into the store, listening to the same sounds for 9 minutes. She picked things up, lifted the lids, smelt the contents, and dropped them into her cart.
She walked to the counter, and asked the lady for 2 dollars worth of quarters. She paid what she owed and left.
She walked back to where she came from, but she took a different route, as there were new stories being whispered in her ears, and no matter how hard she tried she couldn't pretend there were cameras around when she walked facing east. She slid across ice and wished there were more of it. She did not like what the city decided to call winter.

Happy Holidays


Detective Story

My mother was a detective named Regina DeGregor, you may have heard of her. Honestly, I'd be surprised if you hadn't. She was the detective who caught the Comox Clutcher, the Indecent Italian and most famously, the Boat-dock Bludgeoner. You see, my Mother was all about chasing villains. No matter wether it was a megalomaniacal cyborg or a mosquito king, she knew everything there was to know about catching the crook. During a particularly hot summer in Venice she was given the key to the city for her amazing capture of the Venice Vivisector. She’d originally gone there to get away from work for a while, but as she explained to me; before she left me alone in the room for the rest of the week, “Sometimes, you need to help people even when you should be helping yourself.”
As awesome as it sounds like it would be to have a famous detective for a Mother, it was usually unbearable. As a youngster whenever my mother would throw her famous ‘Crook’tail parties, everyone would always pester me to death with questions like “When will you become a detective like Mummy?” and “Catch any criminals lately, DeGregor Jr.?” These were both stupid questions because I was obviously too young to catch criminals and too terrified by crowds to answer any question asked of me. You see, contrary to popular belief, people rarely actually want to become just like their famous parents.
My Mother was always good about not asking me about being a detective, but I was only seven when she died. My father was the king of the Tramps so he hardly had time to raise a child, so I was bounced between orphanages until I was eighteen. It was a terrible time, but I don’t like to linger in the past. Once I was out of the system, I applied to a number of colleges and universities; trying to get accepted into a writing program. You see, it had been my dream to become a journalist ever since I read a particularly scathing review of Lenin's hands-on approach to governing in The New Hampshire Trotter. Unfortunately, despite my persuasive entry letters, every institution I applied to rejected my application and told me I’d need a high-school diploma before I could become part of their ‘student body’. This was totally stupid though because while I was bouncing from orphanage to orphanage I’d picked up Grade 12 Calculus, English, History and Writing from various felons and other louts. I know it sounds unlikely, but it’s one-hundred percent true.
However, despite my initial rejection I still had my heart set on becoming a world-famous journalist, so I formulated a plan. The first step was to move to Manhattan and penetrate the nitty-gritty underbelly. Once I was in I'd have an endless supply of material to write a revealing tell-all of the city's seedy reality. Sadly, that plan was scratched when I realized that I couldn’t even afford to be homeless in New York City. Such was also the case with my back-up choices Los Angeles, Las Vegas, Puerto Rico, Anaheim, Calgary, Toronto, Chicago, Miami, Edmonton, Vancouver, Ottawa, Montreal and the entire province of New Brunswick. Left with no other choice, I set out for Manitoba, the only place so derelict of life that I could probably just settle a house anywhere and nobody would charge me any rent due to the fact that nobody lives in Manitoba.
Manitoba was cold. Manitoba was very very cold. For the first few months I was there I was afraid to pee outdoors just in-case it was possible to have your pee freeze mid-stream and result in terribly complicated surgery on your manhood. Maybe that’s graphic, but I need you to understand just how cold it was in Manitoba. I keep referring to the place as Manitoba because to be honest I don’t think the place I lived even counted as a town. The locals called it 'Winnipeg', but I’m pretty sure that was just some local joke. Nobody could be dumb enough to name a town Winnipeg. However, for the sake of convenience, I’ll refer to the town as Winnipeg from here on.
The first day I arrived in ‘Winnipeg’ it was snowing. A lot. I really had no choice but to pull over to the side of the road and bundle up in a bunch of blankets and wait out the blizzard. I was warm enough to be comfortable, and it gave me some time to catch up on my reading. However, as I was sitting comfy-cozy in my bundle of wool blankets, I heard a terrifying scratching at my window. I figured it would just be one of the wild Manitoban raccoons, but as I dropped the book into my lap I saw that the thing making the scratching was a person! I couldn’t make out anything in the darkness of the winter night except for a large monocle magnifying his left eye. He was scratching away some of the snow on my window, making himself a little peep-hole into my car. I was a little bit awestruck by the total randomness of the event so I didn’t move or alert him to the fact that i was aware of his presence.
He continued to wipe away snow until he had a patch about six-inches wide and four inches high, he took another quick peer in; to make sure I wasn’t aware. His giant green eye magnified a hundred times by his monocle. Then he raised an old-fashioned camera to the window and took a photo. The flash was huge, and totally blinded me. I heard the sound of the driver door opening, then my keys being plucked from the ignition and then the sound of the little scoundrel scampering off! “Hey!” I shouted, “What’s the big idea?”, I rubbed my eyes furiously, but the little man was gone by the time my vision was back. I leapt to my knees (as the car was rather cramped) and sprung out the door into the freezing ‘Winnipeg’ air.
The man was gone from my sight, but I found his trail of footprints in the snow. I decided foolishly to leave my car behind, and followed the trail of footprints he’d carelessly left in the snow. The footprints were wide enough that I could easily step in them, avoiding getting my sneakers cold and wet. If there’s one thing I hate it’s wet, cold sneakers. As I followed the green-eyed monocle man’s footprints, I noticed that in the distance I could hear what sounded like polka music. At first I dismissed this as ridiculous, but as I followed the footprints further the music became clear. It was definitely polka.
The music was coming from a small shack to my left, there was a small circular window in the door that a warm, flickering light was shining out of. I passed it, intrigued but still intent on catching the little man. Unfortunately, had I been paying more attention I’d have noticed that the tracks had turned into the little shack. I took one step too many and my foot plunged into the snow. My sneaker was soaked...
I walked up to the door of the shack, my foot freezing half to death, and pushed on the door. It swung half-way open then knocked against something solid. A muffled grunt came from the other side and after a brief scrambling an oblong little man appeared in the crack of the door. He was wearing a monocle, but I could see from the small light which silhouetted him that his eye was blue.
“What’s your business!” The oblong man shouted through the wide crack in the door. “Don’t you know you’re supposed to knock and say the password!”
“But the door was unlocked.” I replied, “I assumed that nobody would mind if I came in, you see-”
“Well when you assume you make an ass of you and me!” He shouted, cutting me off.
“Right, definetly.” I began again, “ But you see, I came here to find a man.”
“Sorry, this isn’t that kind of place, try the cottage three miles to the north. Good-day.” He shouted then slammed the door. Feeling rather daring and irritated because of my soaked sneaker, I shoved the door again, opening it to the same spot. There was a louder thump that time, it seemed the oblong man had been sitting on a stool and I’d just knocked it over.
“Bugger off you scurvy beast!” He cursed, “Say the password or get lost and stop knocking over my stool!”
“Well if you’ll listen for just a second!” I shouted, “Some ghastly little creeper just tramped up to my car and yanked my keys!” He slammed the door on me again, barely missing my nose. I was officially fed up.
I quickly ambled back to my car, little tears forming at the sides of my eyes from the sheer discomfort in my feet. I popped my trunk, I didn’t need to worry about it being locked due to the fact that I haven’t driven a single car in my life that’s had a functioning trunk-lock. I reached in and rustled around for a moment, the tips of my fingers brushed over a whole plethora of objects before I found what I wanted. I pulled it out and brandished it over my head, had the sun been up it would have reflected menacingly off it’s steely-black body, but it was night so you couldn’t really see it against the sky.
I trampled my way back to the shack, holding the heavy black tool in my arms. I balanced it on one shoulder and pounded menacingly with my free fist.
“What’s the password?” The oblong man grunted from the other side.
“I’m carrying a huge typewriter, my feet are soggy and a troll stole my car keys! More importantly, I’m not afraid of you and I will beat your ass!” I shouted mightily.
“Incorrect.” The oblong man replied nonchalantly. I’d expected this, but I had a back-up plan. I took half a dozen big-steps backwards and cleared a little path in the snow between myself and the door. I gave a quick knock then jumped back to the end of my cleared path. “What’s the password?” the oblong man grunted again, I could tell he had his ear pressed against the door to listen for a response. I started to barrel full-speed towards the door, my hulking typewriter prepared for a mighty swing.
I let loose a primal scream of “Reeeunnnghaaaaaa!” and jumped with all my force towards the sturdy wooden door.

Rocking New Band

Happy Holidays you Godless Heathens.
Now how about some updates? Consider it a gift to me!




Shout at me in Passing

I've become an angry man. At some point in the past two years something so unjust and black has happened that it's bittered me completely; drawn every last grain of sweetness from my body and ground it to salt. If you don't believe me you can ask the people who I don't know, they'll tell you the facts. They'll shout them to you in passing, in the dark of night, in the blackness between a pair of street lights. Their cries will echo on forever afterwards, "I hate you, I hate you, I HATE YOU!" rattling through the night sky, drowning out the cries of the wrens and sparrows.
Maybe they're wrong and I'm not an angry man at all. But I hope they aren't. I hope that rather than the thrashing, gibbering senselessness which they exhibit, I hold something else; anything else. I'd rather be cold and angry than as utterly devoid of meaning as the alternative.


omgwtflol *shakes head*


B.S. Post

Feel free to edit it and change it around, because additions are always fun!

So all I wanted to say was that it's 6 days until I go to Comox...
I'm going to molest Travis
get drunk with Tyler
and be generally crazy with Dee!!

and 6 days till I leave; 10 days till school starts :) - Erin
Wow way to leave the day I go there.

Dee is one fucked up little fucker. Christmas is also fucked up.
It's Christmas Eve. I have like six booklets to print. My Printer is out of Ink.
I'm going to rape travis



My feet have become like those of a dancer,

made strong and lithe by evasion rather than by worship.

I dance on the balance beams, though the padding is worn in places,

I can't look at the ground beneath me,

all the dancing birds who came before me now lay there;

covered in muck, heads stiffened with atrophy

and wings broken by the feet of wolves.

Their beaks still move, twitching and hissing

like snakes or tea-kettles; of which I am neither.

Unlike other birds,

I have a head fastened between my shoulders

and though I’ve not yet found direction

my feathers can still catch wind.

Still I wonder what it must be like

to be so dumb, impotent and shrill,

sometimes imagining I've fallen to the floor with them,

and I too roll in the muck and cry ‘Why Me!’.

One day soon, I'm sure it will happen

my nimble feet will stumble

and I'll find myself on the floor,

my eyes will be wet and my throat hoarse.

Yet there on the floor, covered in mud,

wrapped in bedsheets from your home,

I'll find reprieve.


Today's theme is: Terrorism!

The school bell’s mechanical bell was crying it’s last cry, warning students that their classes were about to begin. Kelsey was going to be about five-seconds late, but she knew her first-block teacher wouldn’t mind. He liked to pretend he was cool with things like that because he was the school councillor. She took her time wandering in the school doors towards her locker, they closed with the satisfying crack that only high-school doors can.
Her locker was right beside the main foyer so she didn’t need to dodge much foot-traffic to get to it. She ducked and weaved through the sparse face-less crowd anyways though. She figured that she may as well find her own fun in this place since it had been made so abundantly clear in the last thirteen years that it wasn’t going to be provided. Kelsey wasn’t totally sure that she’d been in school thirteen years, but the number had some drama to it, so she went with it.
She didn’t actually need anything out of her locker, so she basically just walked up to it, turned around and walked away. If she’d only had a piece of abandoned luggage, she could have become a full-fledged terrorist. Kelsey decided then and there that the theme of the day would be terrorism.
Kelsey’s advisor; a hirsute, old asian man named Mr. London, was staring distractedly down at a stack of papers which had been on his desk for easily a week. Kelsey had made a little red line down the side of the stack so she could keep track of when the pile left. She was confident that it she shuffled through all the loose pages on his desk a month from now, she could still form the thin red line. It made Kelsey roll her eyes, and unfortunately it made her roll her eyes just as Mr. London noticed that she had entered his class; a small, dirty little corner of the otherwise neat and tidy school.
“That’s right Kelsey, roll your eyes every time you walk into a class. You know, just in-case it isn’t perfectly clear that you’re just brimming over with enthusiasm.” he mumbled in his deep, boring voice. He looked Asian, but he didn’t sound Asian at all. It was always entertaining to watch people first meeting him; the surprised wideness in their eyes as they realized he was just another Canadian.
“I roll my eyes to praise Allah for giving me another opportunity to purge the filthy eagles from the promised land.” Kelsey sighed, then brushed past Mr. London, intentionally knocking the ornate little pencil-sharpener shaped like a pig into the garbage bin beside his desk. “Die, capitalist swine!” she shouted, then bent down and replaced the sharpener on the desk, but turning it to face the back of the room. Mr. London just stared, he’d clearly come to expect this kind of behaviour from Kelsey.
She took her seat in the middle-desk of the middle-row in the class, and slouched down so that her eyes were barely visible above the scratched and torn faux-wood desk. She clawed at the underside, checking to see if there was any exciting news awaiting her. She checked the little rib where the desk curls up underneath, but there was none. Sliding back up into the proper sitting position, Kelsey slung her back-pack off of her shoulder and onto the desk and waited for the rest of her likely absent class to file in.




complete shit and FRUSTRATION

THIS IS A PERSONAL REMINDER FOR ME AND NOT YOU: the_haiku_pirate@hotmail.com password #one

jesus exists.
I saw him about ten minutes ago.
Computers hate me.
technology hates me.
tuesday has been bought by Sara.
travis pressured me into this.
I bet he now regrets it.
take that, travis.


Brian Circa 1999

Brian was a vampire back in 1999. He fucked off and got fucked up under bridges and between buildings, fell out with his former friends and found salvation after six months between bars; trumped-up charges of petty theft and petty treason. He straightened out and suited up and sought out the real big deal they call real big money, despite all his former failures. Found a real sweet girl named Mitzi Montana, used to teach tots in Mississippi. She filed down his teeth and taught his tongue to take a breather when the cocky coppers started breathing down his neck and they had some killer parties. Now Mitzi’s Dad is a Marine, named Cpl. Frank Montana, and he loves his daughter’s boyfriend like a mother. Real Big Deal is Franky’s brother. So Franky phoned in some favours for his daughter’s vampire lover, and Real Big Deal helped Brian out; gave him a job counting cards for the cabinet. Until one morning Brian took out cross the fields like a fire, shouting sonnets in chorus with moaning trees; shouting “Liar!” He swore and he swears and he’ll swear off his chains, superimposed on his government registered ankles. He’ll swear and he’ll cry and he’ll claw at the sky, until it’s all become dust on dust. Until the terrible buildings have fallen from the sky at the peak of a terrific tremor, caused by shifting plates forced to crash and collide by the increasing mass of the ocean. Brain ran cross the field, and he reached the great marsh where there slept and old humbling dragon, and he wander waist-deep and he reached for his feet but found only more water and water. His murdered voice shook, and the marsh turned to brook and the mud turned to sand and the cat-tails grew lighter and lighter until they were no longer confined to the ground’s narrow mind and they floated away cross the distance. Brian no longer stood, he was now only wood; wood that clawed for the indifferent sun. He never lifted his feet, never slept, didn’t eat but just rotted and bloomed with the seasons, and if you crawled past the guards back out into the land you could find him all lone on a hill, where if you dug very deep through tight roots and cold clay you’d find filed teeth.



The Mutiny Against My Mothers Mittens

'>' = tab
(friggen blogger formatter crapshit)

A few spots of yellow light marked the pebbled pavement; I look over my shoulders.
Nothing but the silhouettes of the underbrush
> and the tall turgid trees rustling in the bitter breeze.
My breath had made my scarf wet with condensation,
> cold and snotty, all the while it’s wool rasping my neck.

I felt comfortable though, my car is less than fifty feet away.
Also, I left it unlocked so that I wouldn’t need to fumble for my keys
> if I was seen.
It’ wasn’t that what I was doing was bad,
> No, not at all.
I just didn’t want anyone I knew
> to see me by myself
> with my mother’s mittens
> clenching the clasp of my camera

The night nips nicely at my ears,
> and against her word, as planned,
I cast my Mother’s mittens aside;
> for I knew of a better lover.
Having dealt decently with that,
I lift my tripod from my knapsack
> spread it’s legs apart,
> extending her cold, smooth appendages
> and fastened them to her body.
I hold my camera in my hands,
Her shutter release so pleasing,
Her lens so sturdy,
> it’s grips so gripping
> with it’s sight so seeing.
And I pressed my face up against her back,
> My eyes through hers through mine.

And…yes, I agree.
> it seemed all too simple a decision, too quick, too hasty.
So simply sold and scrapped,
left to lie in the shade of the soil.
It’s just that,
they seemed to get in the way.
With those mittens, one could not speak freely,
And I would be stripped of my power as a photographer,
> no longer a being of free will.
And dealing with dexterity, or lack of it,
Like trying to unlock a door, or lighting a cigarette!
Or unzipping a coat or tying up loose shoelaces?!
I, I mean Godammit! Who in the right Fucking mind would invent such useless –

Oh dear…
I am so sorry,
I apologize for my behaviour; it’s just that I –
What I mean to say is,
The mutiny against my Mother’s mittens was not unjust,
And that I acted on sheer common sense!
The era of mittens has come and past,
They have outlived there time,
> and that in this modern world, none should suffer as we have hence.
Your Honour, please, I beg of you.
If not for justice, for love!
That is all I have to say,
> Thank you for your time.


NIDES has this new thing where you have to do a "course activation" assingnment befoer you can start a new course. I'm just starting Planning 10, and they want me to write what my life at age 30 would look like in the ideal.

My Life at 30

I look out my bedroom window at the busy street below. Skyscrapers line the horizon of downtown Seattle, and the sun is slowly setting in a bed of burning clouds. It’s the end of another sweltering summer day, and it’s my favorite time of year.

The day was spent inside the rat trap where I work. Work is an overstatement though; the job can hardly be described as work when it’s something so enjoyable. The atmosphere, the people, the good food; it’s all so rewarding. It even lets me afford this great view, if you can believe it.

Family is a thing I don’t mention much. Oh sure, I have one, but not one I would care to mention. They have their own little worlds to deal with, and don’t have time to deal with mine. They couldn’t handle it even if I did tell them. I see them off and on, but when we get together it’s about them and not me. I have a game I play with myself to see how long I can go without yawning in a conversation; my personal record is 15 minutes.

Friends are another thing. People I actually choose to spend my time with are hard to come by, but I’ve found some pretty unique ones. Most are in the same work as me, and the ones who aren’t are interested. I can see a pretty bright future for them. I like people I can relate to, and don’t get along with people who I can’t.

Tomorrow will be another bright and fulfilling day, maybe I’ll even meet someone interesting. When you smuggle illegal substances, you don’t get a great big chance for intimate conversation.


What brings me to the forest

I've taken a liking to bringing my picnic box, eating a candle lit meal, and watching the beautiful specimen I call "it" every afternoon.

Crawling, fidgeting, and scurrying around in the dirt. It's groping around on the forest floor, bleeding on the shrubbery, lifeless weight dragging over nursing trees and pineneeedles, its own pressure forcing snails and insects into already maggoty wounds. With a mouth full of mud, yellow eyes extruding puss, rotting flesh that gets torn apart over the sharp protrusions on the ground,it carries around a tattered blanket that barely covers its corpsey spine and decroding skull. Occasionally his ribs get caught on some roots, but he's been going in the same monotonous circle for years now.

Here's Something New

Writing from my own words, about myself. Me me me. I am her, she, this thing I always speak of.
I always work my words around like a little thesaurus, trying to make my mundane little life seem more exciting and profound. I write about waiting to cross the street. Something tells me that none of this is working, I'm really not fooling anyone.

I could bitch and moan and groan about all the trivial daily things that, "Piss the shit" out of people.

My computer is broken.

My disc man is in toronto.

I am lonely as all get out.

But heavens, Samantha, do it with some class.

Communication is a distant thing these days. She sat silently, waiting for a response, instead a message came about telling her all would be momentarily lost.

Her life grew quiet, and her nights went on the same. She could choke on the empty air around her, when all the things she craved were thousands of miles away.

It was cold outside and the roads were covered with ice. The city slept under a soft white blanket of snow. There was no one about, and she was completely alone.

What I'm trying to say is, I'm tired of pretending. But I'll keep doing it anyway.


I Cannot Keep the Night from Coming In

“Why did the snow have to stop?” Kelsey sighed, looking out the window at the slowly melting winter wonderland. The question was rhetorical, but her father answered anyways.
“Probably because the boss is mad at your mom for calling in sick the last three days.” He mumbled in a goodnatured tone. Kelsey’s mother had in fact called in to work the last three days saying that she couldn’t drive in the snowy conditions. This was a lie, but it didn’t really matter in the greater scheme of things.
“Haha, I don’t think Jody has much control over the weather. Dad.” Jody was the boss of Kelsey’s mom, she was a family friend and had probably suspected that she was exaggerating the weather conditions.
“No, Kelsey, I meant ‘the boss’ as in God.” Kelsey’s dad laughed. He wasn’t really that religious, but he still believed that the cosmos were governed by an intelligent force.
“Dad, God doesn’t control the snow, Jack Frost does!” Kelsey joked, they were practically at the school already, they’d just pulled up to the busy four-way stop just before the turn-off to the student parking lot. Kelsey pitied the people who had to walk through the tall snow-drifts that used to be the sidewalk, but not enough to offer them a ride.
“Jack Frost doesn’t exits.” he sighed, pulling up to the curb where he usually dropped her off. There wasn’t much traffic that day so he didn’t need to worry about holding someone up.
“Neither does God.” Kelsey said monotonously as she slid her bag back over her shoulder and hopped into the tall snow.


This is How I Hassle You to Update

Nobody updates on weekends because all of the authors at Oscillations have busy social-lives, okay?



It’s like a bad drug that you can’t shake
You know its bad for you
But you still crave it
I crave it
But thinking about it makes me sick
But thinking about it excites me
But thinking about it makes me hate myself.

So I don’t understand
I never did;
Why do I always go back
To scratch at a healing wound
Till not even blood dare show,
So raw that all that surfaces is a clear, sticky fluid
Patchwork that never lasts.
It dries, and forms a scab.
Scabs always itch,
And I always scratch.
I am so disgusted
I would never do it in real life
But I would like to
Love them
Without shame
But it would
Ruin them
So this is why
I would never do it in real life
It’s wrong
It’s sick.

I stop scratching
For awhile
Even though it feels
So Good
But then it itches
But then it stings
But thinking about it makes me sick
But thinking about it excites me
But thinking about it makes me hate myself.

[picture from getty images]


The Lady Frances

I am going to be homeless. I don't mean in the traditional sense, with no fixed address, not knowing where I am going to sleep or where my next meal is coming from. I have a roof over my head, but the town I have always thought of as home is about to cease to exist.
The world is dotted with ghost towns and ruins. Relics of civilizations long gone can be found in almost any pile of rocks, it seems, if one knows what to look for. It seems towns and cities are like people: living creatures with personalities, uniqueness, strengths, failings, wisdom, foolishness, with heartbeats and arteries, complex brains and nervous systems, with eyes and ears tuned on the rest of the world; living creatures that, like all living creatures, have to die. Death can come quickly, as with the city of Pompei, forever preserved in ash as monument to unexpected tragedy, but it can also come slowly, like scirosis of the liver. The liver regenerates, and every chronic alcoholic has a window of opportunity during which, if he or she can quit drinking, he or she can keep living. However, by this point, alcohol has such a strong grip that often the afflicted individual will be unable to change his or her habits and will continue to drink until the liver is beyond all repair. Death by failure to correct a bad habit, a lifetime of minor poisonings and here we are, her children, facing homelessness.
Because this town was our mother, and as much as we may have grown to hate her, all of her failings, all of her pettiness, her nastiness, all of the times she tried so hard to drag us down with her, the fact remains that she raised us. She sheltered, fed, and taught us and now she is dying by her own hand.
Some say good riddance, but not me. I want to go home again, check her into rehab, give her all my love, and help her through this. I can't watch her die a Jane Doe, because with her will die my ability to say, "This is where I come from, this is who I am. This is my home."

Jungle Fever

Somewhere far above, a voice cries, “We’ve got a war to fight!” It echoes over the valleys and topples over waterfalls, mixing into the water and choking all the fish until their eyes glaze over and are eaten by the birds. It creeps through the jungles and snatches everything on the ground with it’s ivory mandibles. The blood drains out into thirsty mouths and then splashes on the ground where seed chutes bloom into orchids and lilies. Great leopards hiss from the lush boughs, their ears pressed to their head and their mouths pulled back like elastic bands. Their paws swipe with an impotent fury. The great jungle cats are too proud to surrender to the sweeping death, but too cowardly and too intelligent to attack the tendrils shooting through the trees. And soon, the boughs themselves curl in on themselves and swallow the massive jungle beast into their labyrinthine roots.
The tendrils sweep through the cities, small animals from the forests still clinging to the leafy sides. A fat business man is enveloped by one of the tentacles, it’s great mass envelopes his like a rope coiling round a post. Then it snaps taut, leaving only bones where once there was only skin. The tentacles tear through offices, throwing copiers and faxes across city blocks. One woman is crushed by a great beige filing cabinet, and her last words are cut short by the wild, seven-petaled flowers shooting from her mouth. They stretch towards the sun, their leaves florid and twisting, and breath slow, shallow breaths. Soon they will grow into humanoid monstrosities. Soon business suits will be filled with twisted and gnarled roots which propel themselves independent of greed and sophistication. Soon roses will waltz in the streets, tearing through the crowds with their long, ravenous thorns.



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I'm waking up with a bloody mouth. My teeth are humming, catching every resonance of noise and movement that vibrates through the air. I feel like a bat. I feel like a vampire. Maybe I"m waking up in the middle of the night, swooping out across the town and preying on young, dumb, bright things wandering where they shouldn't be. Or maybe I'm just brushing too hard. My tongue is irritated, raw from scrubbing and lashing at my buzzing teeth. It feels empty, like there's no blood or muscle in it. It feels foreign and it itches, this must be how organ recievers feel. Like there's something inside of them that shouldn't be there. I'm going to bite off my tongue. Tear it straight down the middle with my incisors and crush any dangling threads with my angry molars. I'll find it's original donor, kill them, drink their blood, become a vampire. That's what normal people do, right?


i used to pick up my pen

they are emotive and melancholy
and it's the details that are left out
which make me interesting
cuz i hope im
more than the friends that hurt
more than the days that killed me
more than the people that saved me
more than an inference
more than the activities i love
more than all that i've chosen to forget
and more than all that I try to remember
anything that seemed like it would be valuable to know when im old and rotting.

maybe after I tear up the pages and backspace the letters which appear on this screen
I'll reflect on the productive aspects
the possible positive outcomes
and maybe I'll think and appreciate
that perhaps I really was learning the dynamics of punctuation, and the importance of dialogue. That i got the chance to experience the kind meaningless words that scribbled from the pens of teachers

but I sit in desks
killing my brain cells
building a bitter attitude towards this person I am, and the physical vessels around me
and im telling myself that I wouldn't want us to all be lifeless drones
and that there is a purpose to expressing the english language

but I hate writing
because I can't write
and this is anything but expression
and if it never finds an ending
I hope to stab a pen through my heart
and pray to a fucking god that I don't believe in
that I can do more than add to the slow devolution of language

But It will never happen.
I'll still be here
or there
or wherever the fuck I'll be
still penning down the excrement of thoughts
and hating every letter that forms into a word, sentence, paragraph, essay, or story.

listen real close
the 'publish' button whispers a quiet "fuck you."

This is no ordinary love

It was five minutes after she arrived home that she had remembered her keys were in the pocket of a pair of pants she wasn't wearing, and that she had no way into her home. She crawled onto the floor, and sat propped up against the wall beside her door. The hallway in her apartment building was dimly lit, but warm. She scribbled a pen against papers, writing down the genetic information of a family of calico and cinnamon coloured cats.
Then she fell asleep.
She had never realized just how comfortable the wall in the hallway outside her apartment had been, and she hoped that she would be locked out again soon.
Someone arrived and let her inside.
She grabbed her wallet and ran out to the car, waiting patiently for someone to unlock the door. She sat in the front seat, looking out for blue and yellow signs. She lost interest, and instead focused on the cars swerving in and out of the line in front of her. Something about it was very graceful to her, and reminded her of a dance. To her, the cars skidding on slush and ice were nothing more than ballet dancers.
The sun had set several hours ago, and now artificial lights lit up the sky. The stars don't exist here. A neon Santa Claus flew along the roof of the airport. It must be December. Puffs of exhaust fumes came out of the back of the cars, and puffs of CO2 escaped from the mouths of the people outside. Two older women hurried along a cross-walk, dragging a little boy behind them. His jacket was wide open, and blowing in the wind. He shoved a piece of chocolate into his mouth and looked straight at her.
She smiled.
He looked away.
The car was left running. She wouldn't be long. She ran inside the ever expanding building, and put out 414 dollars and 82 cents infront of her, handing it to the same man she had seen in June. She was fairly certain he didn't recognize her, but he was still just as pleasent. They exchanged money, paper, smiles, "Thanks you"s and "You're welcome"s. She ran back outside and into the car with a smile on her face.
The smile still won't go away.
In 23 days she would be sitting on a plane, on her way to getting to spend 10 days with her heart.


Something was here, but now it's gone

She woke up and looked over to her clock. It beeped and yelled and screamed at her. 7:00am. She hit snooze. The snooze button shut the clock up for 7 minutes at a time.
Then she turned it off. Her clock was 10 minutes fast.
She meant to roll out of bed, and start her day. Instead the covers came up over her head. Company came into her room at 8:10.
"It's almost 8 o'clock!"
She was tired of counting minutes and hours and seconds.
It seemed to her lately that her time was mostly spent crying over cups of coffee for reasons she couldn't explain.
That's a lie. She could explain them, but no one would quite understand her explanation.
She walked around her home, like a ghost. She wouldn't look or talk to anyone, and when there wasn't anyone to ignore, she'd just talk to herself.
No matter how loud she turned the music, it wouldn't drown out the sounds on cracking pipes and radiators that made her crawl in her own skin, and it deffinetly couldn't hide the fact that the walls around her were pulsing and breathing.
She tried to hide these facts.
Her arms were sore and bruised, from constantly hitting them against air filled sacks made of leather and plastic. She looked at her tiny bruises, and they reminded her of left over marks from needles and blood tests. She prayed she'd never have to get a blood test again, and smile that in one hour she would be throwing herself onto a piece of plastic, and flying down an ice covered hill.
She was ready to fly, and she didn't care if she broke all her bones in the process.

Jamie and Caralee Muse on the Enola Gay Hangar

I don’t know why we came here. It wasn’t my idea, and I don’t know why you agreed. You look so pathetic without your orthopedics on, your one shorter leg making it hard for you to balance or even walk straight. The baggy jacket doesn’t help, it just hides your hands and makes you look small. Today you look like a small, stupid little man who thinks he’s found something amazing. Today this ring feels like a vice, and this marriage feels like a bad-joke. Today I hate you.

This building is low and broken. It’s a coward trying to forget the terrible things it’s done, huddled close to the one it’s destroyed. I’m glad we’re here. I’m glad that you’re sick and you want to go home. I”m glad that you hate me right now. It’s fitting that we visit this place when we’re like this. We can’t allow ourselves to ever look back on this place with euphoria or nostalgia. This is a place to hate, a place to be remembered as a bad taste. I hope when we think of this trip a few years from now we’ll remember all the pain and the hate, and I hope we remember how insignificant our pain is in comparison to the pain this building represents.

I can tell you’re thinking some profound thought by the way you’re staring incredulously out at the devastated Earth that surrounds us. You’ve barely said a word since we got here, not that there’s anything to say. The shattered windows and the utter lack of life speaks for itself. This place is just a shell where hate lived before it found a bigger home. This is where hate slept before it burned shadows from bodies and flesh from bones.

We could try to jimmy the lock on the door open, but what would be the point. There’s nothing inside except concrete, some broken bottles, forgotten lighters and ashes. I’d like to pretend as the bottles were broken their owners were filled with outrage at the injustice that the building they were in symbolized. But in all honesty, they probably don’t know where they are. Knowledge is a weapon, but so is ignorance. The only difference is that ignorance is easier to manufacture, easier to wield. Hiroshima and Nagasaki weren’t destroyed by knowledge, hopefully this building will be though.
{This image is from Xiu Xiu's Tour Photos and is totally not mine! Go buy copies at http://www.davidhorvitz.com/xxtourphotos.html}



Nothing really changes.
She sits next to three empty glasses and waits for a sign from something, or someone. What kind of sign, she doesn't know. She's stuck, and she's waiting for change.
Nothing ever changes.
She can't stop thinking about ripping out her hair. She resents her hair for taking away all the attention from her. She's never told what a great person she is, but she's heard hundreds of compliments on her hair.
No one will let her change it.
She can't stop thinking about her scars. These horrible little reminders of destructive moments and long nights.
They'll never go away.

There are large weights hanging from the skin around her wrists. Not literally, but she feels like there is. No one respects why she asks them to put the scissors down. No one really knows why, so it's not her fault.
That's just how it will always be.
That is, until she stops waiting, and makes her own changes, and there's no more wrists for weights to hang from, or hair to be pulled out.
But we don't talk about this.


Corpse Dan

I’m wiping down the counter of the diner I’m working at, and my fingers are starting to itch and burn a bit from all the chemicals on the rag. I have to lift up the limp arm of one of the patrons to get at the large stain forming under him. It’s red and normally that would be bad, but the counter is already kind of brown so when it is totally dry it should blend in pretty well. The streets are usually crowded this time of night. People are rushing between work and home, usually unsure which is which. Their headlights sweep one way and the other and the exhaust clouds the air and makes it hard to see anything except the cars. It’s not like that lately though, the streets are dead tonight just like they were last night and the night before that. I swear, one zombie apocalypse and business just dries up like that.
I’m not sure why the dead started walking the Earth. Maybe that whole “When hell is full, the dead will walk the Earth.” thing wasn’t so far off. It doesn’t really matter why the dead have been becoming mindless killing machines, it’s not like finding the source of the problem will fix anything. Besides, it’s not like any of the brilliant minds of today have had much time to think about anything. I imagine most of them have been busy running for their lives. It’s kind of ironic that I have so much spare time on my hands when the only people who could really do anything about the zombie problem have no time at all. Maybe that isn’t ironic. I’m not sure, but all the English teachers are dead so it doesn’t really matter. All of my English teachers were the kind of people who would be the first to go during a zombie attack. None were particularly fit, and they were all terribly smart. The zombies probably swarmed them and had a lavish feast on their fat, intellectual brains. My Gym teachers on the other hand are probably doing just fine.
I’m glad that I haven’t been eaten yet, but I’m beginning to feel a bit insulted. What’s so wrong with my brain that no zombie has come barging down my door to devour it? I’m smart, I got good marks in school; though I stopped going after brainless corpses started showing up (outside of the shop classes, I mean.) Judging from my Math marks alone, zombies should be pounding down my damn door. None are though, it’s just me and Corpse Dan.
Corpse Dan is an ex-patron of the diner I work at, The Slam-dunk. His real name is Dan Messing, but now that he’s a corpse I decided to shorten it to Corpse Dan. He staggered into the diner today with a big ol’ chunk of his shoulder missing. He drank some coffee that I served him, then he slowly bled out all over the floor. Dan Messing was a messy bastard. He became a zombie for a bit, but I figured I shouldn’t let a zombie hang out in my diner. So, I shot him with the hand-gun that my Italian boss keeps under the cash-register. It was a poor decision, and I’m still scrubbing at his blood, but better dead than un-dead, am I right?




mountain goats

There's a great deal of similarity between the mountain goat and its fellow ungulate the sheep. But this enigmatic creature stands out from the crowd with its unique combination of alertness, generosity and unassuming charm. For the mountain goat is a loner. An edgy, introverted soul. who abhors crowds and puts is nimble legs to work in the great outdoors.

If you're looking for a scout guide or hiking partner, this sure-footed beast is an ideal choice. However, its talents as a leader are suspect. Because of its solitary existence, it does not have the insight into human behavior that is required for leadership. Mountain goats are not risk takers and need to feel solid ground beneath their feet before making any major decision. Mia Farrow is an exemplary mountain goat who manages to maintain her balance while snakes and rock-falls threaten to dislodge her grip on life.

The mountain goat's desire to find a mate can lure it from its solitary hideout, and it seeks partners with strong personalities that promise protection in an unfriendly world. However, when choosing a mate, it will quickly withdraws if it fails to get a commitment. This behavior is often interpreted as desperation and some relationships are doomed before they get off the ground.

A relationship with a mountain goat is an exercise in ups and downs. Even though its emotional fragility causes the premature death of many love affairs, provide its partner remains faithful, the mountain goat will honor it with commitment and fidelity. For mountain goats are unconditional with their love and try hard to make their relationships work. This species of ungulates has a special relationship with the eagle with whom it shares a common mountain perspective.

The ice was melting, slowly revealing the bright orange and red mud underneath it. Spring was taunting her.

Two days earlier she stood at the cross lights on the main street, with the frost slowly working its way onto the flesh of her ears. The water from her breath blew into her nose, pulling her nostrils shut and freezing them together.

She pressed the little sensor on the side of the light three times, knowing it wouldn't make the light change any faster, but enjoying the security of knowing that it was actually pressed. The hand on the other side of the road began to flash. It blinked on and off continuously, teasing her. It was as though it would never stop, and she'd be stuck there in time, waiting to cross a road covered with gravel and ice and the tires of crawling cars.

The next day jokes were made that finally set her off. Of all the things to offend her, and of all the times. She hated him for this, but it wasn't his fault, he wouldn't have known.

She spent the rest of the time sighing and frowning as another girl pulled at her hair and burned her frost bitten ears. They asked her if she was alright. She's just tired. She lies a lot, because she's really not tired at all and she's certainly not alright.

She braced the cold to buy things that would slowly pull apart her insides. She thought about drinking most of it alone that night, but everyone looked at her oddly when she suggested it would be what she would do. So she left it.

She got dressed up, and walked into a dark room where people she didn't know covered her face in powders that were a few shades off from her skin colour.

She's too pale.

It's not pretty.
They pulled and pushed her in awkward poses, trying to hide all her flaws while leaning her over a table.
They took her picture 100 times.
Tonight she has to go back to pretending. She likes to pretend, because she's so tired of herself.
The ice melted, and revealed the leaves and the dirt and the plants.
Then the snow came in large masses and covered it all up and killed it again.

Meeting People is Easy

Snow is building up outside my window and the white van has already disappeared into the great lonely tumult of a January blizzard. The snow is indistinct, its appearance doesn’t change from day to day even if each individual flake is some unique miracle. Tell crystallized water that each piece of it is unique and wonderful and you end up with a million pieces of it each one trying to out-shine the others. Tell an entire generation they’re each unique and beautiful and you have a generation of failed stars each trying to tarnish the others. It’s all the same.
I was a failed writer by the age of nineteen. I’d tried without success to market my childhood, offering up memoirs of my stolen innocence; forged accounts of a teenage rape. The truth was that I’d invited the rabbi into my Dad’s station-wagon knowing full-well that he was a pedophile and an arsonist. To this day I can’t pass a burned-down building without hearing his voice say “I love you, I miss you, come to Temple.” He was a top-notch guy, I felt bad when I sold all his phone messages to CNN. That stunt back-fired though, in the end he was the only one Barbara Walters was interested in interviewing.
After the rabbi I got involved with my first real boyfriend. His name was Brett and he was a sloppy-kisser and alcoholic-in-training (though he aspires for the big leagues.) We met at a meeting of the ‘Leaders of Tomorrow’. His collar was popped and he’d clearly spent most of his morning getting his hair just-right, but I smiled and asked him for a cigarette even though I didn’t smoke. As it turned out neither did he, completely shattering the James Dean comparisons I was percolating.
“It’s paying to pollute your lungs.” He said reproachfully. I bit my tongue and didn’t mention that the water bottle he’d filled with vodka was paying to kill his liver. Instead, I played the part.
“Yeah, I’m trying to quit.” I sighed, “It’s just hard, you know?” I gave him my pathetic eyes, a boy can’t shrug you off if you give him the pathetic eyes.
“Two of my friends are trying to quit, they’re using these nicotine patches or some shit like that.”
“Oh yeah, I’ve tried the patches.” Let me remind you that I’ve never touched a cigarette, “Those things will kill you faster than the cigarettes will. Do you drink coffee?”
“Yeah, sometimes.” For the first time in the conversation he turned to me, I could see his eyes. They were dull. “It really sucks how they treat their workers though.”
“Totally! I know this great free-trade coffee place though, could I buy you a cup after this?”
“Sure, that would be great!” He smiled and I smiled back, more because he didn’t know the difference between fair-trade and free-trade, but also a little bit because he was cute.
I met up with Brett outside of the high-school the meeting was held at, it was pretty much open all the time since nobody went to school anymore. Everyone was too busy ‘succeeding’ in life to get a formal education. Some people still did correspondence, but it was rare that anyone graduated anymore, there was just no need to. It was too easy to get set for life by learning how to throw a ball or really convince the camera you’re still a virgin. This isn’t to say that the arts were dead, quite the opposite really. Anyone ugly or weak needed somewhere to go so they all flocked to their canvases and their notebooks. They documented every inch of the earth, no matter what angle you looked at something from it had already been painted, printed and pressed that way twice.
“They were still making tapes when this came out?” I laughed, referring to the Beck cassette I found in the cluttered glove compartment of his Dad’s SUV.
“Of course not,” He laughed, “it’s a mix-tape I made after my last boyfriend dumped me.” It was only a little pathetic, but it somehow became exponentially more so when he said it out-loud. “It’s helped me through a lot of hard times.”
“Wait, so you’re gay then?” I mumbled and parked in-front of the coffee house. The sign outside said ‘Java the Hut’, a reference largely lost on the customers.
“No, bi.” He replied, I wasn’t surprised. Everyone was a bisexual these days.
Brett held the door for me and I stepped in. I knew the girl working the counter, her name was Apple. She’d been my girlfriend last-year before I realized that the market of authors was saturated with white, jewish, lesbians. Despite the year’s time between Apple and Brett I hadn’t dated anyone between them, at least me and Apple were still amiable.
“Hey shit-bag, what can I get you?” She spat towards me. “We’re out of espresso since 8:00 this morning, so we can only make flat drinks.”
“Can you make me a tea?” I asked, locking eyes with her. There was an unpleasant tension. She was probably off her meds again. She was convinced they fucked up her menstrual cycle. “This is Brett, by the way.”
“Hey.” He mumbled uncomfortably.
“What did he say? I can’t hear it when people mumble.” Apple hissed, pouring the tea into a cup as she said it.
“I just said ‘Hey.’” Brett said louder but less interested. “I’ll just have water.”
I brought him over to the chairs near the counter where hipsters usually sat and drank their mocha-soy-double-frappe-latteccappacinos while discussing bands that may as well not exist. He sat uncomfortably in the chair, it was a bit too big for him. That’s something I always forget to mention about Brett, he seemed gigantic from a distance, but up close he was pretty small. Not scrawny, but small.
“So what’s your story, Brett?” I asked casually, folding my arms over my chest. “Why are you a ‘Leader of Tomorrow’?” He laughed after I asked him.
“I joined it to meet girls.” He stated matter-of-factly. I laughed, hard.
“What made you think ‘Leaders of Tomorrow’ would be a place to meet girls?”



You can't fuck my daughter,
But I will dress her like you can.

touch me/click me
if you want more <3 xox

A town full of ghosts

I've lived my whole life in a place that is nothing but a constant reminder of how much I hate myself. You can't run away phsyically, but you can sure as hell remove yourself emotionally, or so you think. It all works until you realize nothing is never new. You'll never actually find anything which you can put all your faith into. I'm like a fucking time bomb in all the relationships or friendships I've ever created.Some person inside of me constantly telling me to get the fuck out of where I am, that nothing is going to end well, that I'll never really appreciate myself that I'm so fucking undeserving of anything good, that it'll all blow up in my face. It's countered of course, countered by a naive moron who keeps telling me that everything will work out and that this year will be different. That this year I'll be a good person, that this year I'll communicate,that this year I've gotten healthier, that this year I'll try my hardest to apologize . Well..now it's time to apologize. Now it's time to start a new, and all I can hear is 'get the fuck out of here.
This is what happens when things are left unresolved. When you learn that you dont really know each other and you are left with all the pieces at your feet. When i was falling apart and dying to get noticed and it just never happened. When you were falling apart and i just didnt care. When we exploded into oblivion.
I need to learn to forget the people who didnt care enough. I need to stop wanting to know how they are doing, if they are happy, if they think of me. Its hard letting go of anyone. I've never been good at it. I miss every person i have ever let go.

I'm fucking sick of turning people into ghosts.

Like Girls in Stilletos

What do you write when there are no words? Or when the only words that are there are too ugly and hateful to become realized on the page? Do you just ignore them despite the way they percolate insidiously within you, or do you write them anyways despite their hateful nature? I guess that's the difference between a writer and an amateur, but which does which? Does the writer scribble the cold words despite their impact because he's honest? Does the writer know better than to write things they know will hurt the people they love? Do you sell hatred and loathing in hardcover or paperback? It's all just impossible.
Nothing here feels permanent. Friends and family disappear for months then return and nothing has changed. Family members leave, but return when they realize it's easier to change the thing that drove them off in the first place. Friends are content to pop pills until they're cold to the touch. The girls are happy to die for love. The boys happy to die for nothing. What do you do when all your friends are dead?


This Salad is Unsatisfying

She's searching her mind tucked neatly under her mass of hair curlers to try to find the right words. She likes to talk about herself like an omnicient narrator, so that maybe if she says something disturbing, or not quite right, no one will be the wiser that she's confessing all sorts of things about herself.
She feels average, so horribly average, and she's unable to express how much she absolutely hates this. Even in her mind the words get all jumbled up and tossed around, like her brain is playing Boggle and just throwing out any word it can find.
Someone asks her if she's alright. She's obviously not. She sighs and tells him that her salad is unsatisfying. He looks and her strangely, and turns to talk to someone else. She laughs to herself at the stupidity of her excuses. There's always been tension between him and her. Some sort of awkwardness you think they would have gotten rid of after these past two months of embracing and kissing in front of twenty of so people.
Secretly, she thinks he isn't rather fond of her at all.
She's partially given up at any attempt of beauty a long time ago, and can't take a compliment at all. She wears makeup, because she wants to cry if she doesn't. She's fine with showing her body, because she finds it so boring and ugly that it's absolutely hilarious, and she's always up for making a joke. Or being a joke. She lacks the self-esteem and decisiveness to tell the difference sometimes.
She breaks down at the worse possible times. Sometimes it takes something phyiscal to set off something emotional, and after he slaps her it's off to a secluded area to cry her eyes out over things she isn't entirely sure of. Sometimes the area isn't so secluded, and she needs to scream at people to stop touching her. She's convinced she'll be fine as long as she never actually has to interact with a human being ever again.
She has to say names she'd rather not hear, and all the sudden words and phrases come out that haven't ever been said. These are not in the script. They sputter off her lips anyway, and push their way into the air around her, for everyone to grasp at and hear. Her soul is trying to tell her something, but what? What is it that didn't work?
She'll pause to consider this for a moment, then remember she is not who she actually is, right now she is someone different, and this person doesn't have these issues. This person can't think of what didn't work and answer everything. This person is about to die in two minutes, and she needs to prepare herself to let that happen.



Lets pretend we don't exist
Lets pretend we're in Antarctica.

Big, Heavy Shoes

I can fly.

In fact, my feet have hardly touched the ground since January when I made a New Year's resolution to grow some balls, stood on my tippy toes one last time and pushed off the ice covered concrete into the cold air.

This wasn't the first time I've flown. I discovered early on that flight was something of a natural predisposition for me, that I am not a creature meant to be attached to solid ground, that solid air is good enough, and by that I've lived most of my life in a reality quite different from that which might be expected of me by others. In being airborne I have discovered that reality is, in fact, quite independent of the society that exists solely on the land. There are all sorts of people living on the land, on the sea, under the sea, under the land, and even above the air. There really is no uniform, constant evenness to the options before any singular or plural human being(s). For every person who lives in the same house for their entire natural life, there is a gypsy nomad with no fixed address, for every suburban family with a white picket fence there is a van full of babies, and for every social problem there is someone who wouldn't have it any other way.

I would rather not crawl around on my hand and knees anymore. I would like to destroy my standard issue cinder block shoes. It's ok to be unexpected.

ahoy hoy

My writing is a body count to remember in broken pencils and ripped papers multiplied by a world surplus of disease and broken hearted angsty bullshit. It has many tendencies. Sometimes I like writing about seasons and nostalgia because I guess i wish that explained how insecurities and memories hang in the air. I write about the same topics incessantly. Friendships, people changing, emotions that are up and down, the good times, the bad times,self deprication, goals, bitterness, graduation, stress ,guilt, animals, family. The theme is the emotions behind anything and everything. How I think I really feel, how I'd like to really feel, how I honestly sometimes do feel.
"Don't write about emotions" Mr.McMahon put on my paper last year
" The emotions should shine through the writing, they should be implicitly understood."
But i know that's bullshit as half of my adolesence was spent in the staleness of implying and tip toeing around thoughts and self expression rather than honest communication,both in words that came from my mouth and in my writing. However, I didn't honestly expected any teacher to know that...but I still wanted to tell him that he really wasn't talking to me specifically.

So that's my introduction for those who are unfamiliar with my style...or lack thereof. I'm sitting here giggling at myself for first creating a livejournal, then a deviant art site, a fake nexopia page, a myspace, and now I'm part of an actual blog. This 'communal blog' does sound rather promising though. I'm looking forward to reading these, and I half promise to post something with more substance and meaning , but for now this is what I've got.

going the fack to sleep,

Motion Lines

I wake up in your bed again, my skin crawling with the quickly fading sensations of whatever dream had provoked this cold sweat from my pores. My dreams have become turgid; great swollen gathering grounds for the fruition of seedy, whispered concepts. Brief flashes of lightning that came and went with the sunlight grow into great thunderstorms of rhetoric and hope with the nurturing of the moonbeams. They’re contrasted against a cityscape backdrop of angular and unstable towers of cynicism, fear and disbelief. Torrid dramas unfold themselves before me, people who’ve made themselves know in my waking life tear in and out of focus in both minor and major parts, frequently both at once.
They share lives and deaths together within the frame of a moment before separating and adhering to new partners. Every night is a new fascinating spectacle. A dominating man throwing himself from a building, a smiling, blond housewife selling her toned body. Tight lipped debutantes and long-legged heiresses rolling in mud on the television. My mother and father waltzing on the wings of a plane as it plummets towards the ocean where aging men with wax faces watch from yachts. I remain the voyeur, by choice or by happy accident. These bizarre, often haunting, nocturnal visions are better from afar. The tragedies are less tragic when I know I have no more sway than old English figureheads. I watch tragedies both minute and epic wash over the ones I love. I can’t stop the dominating man from plunging to his death anymore than I could have stopped the buildings from collapsing in on my first loves and their families. I am nothing and nowhere until morning.


She's On the Move

There's something I must secretly enjoy about moving, living out of a suitcase, and flying from place to place. It's a lonely thing, to travel and move so much, but there's something romantic in always being so lonely.
There's things of mine packed in boxes from two moves ago, that I haven't seen in 5 years. Some things I doubt I will ever really unpack. There's something too permanent about unpacking, and I have commitment issues.
There's things of mine that I have lost, and now lay scattered in fields and houses and along side roads and in hotel rooms all across the country.
I've driven across the country.
I've slept in a van in the parking lot of a gas station in Nova Scotia. Well, I spent the night.
I've slept in a hotel in a small town in Quebec, the same hotel my grandpa died in.
It was his van I spent the night in, after we picked it up and were bringing it back to PEI for my grandma.
I've slept on the 6th floor of a Toronto hotel, at least, I think it was the 6th floor.
I've been so sick and delirious that I thought the giant statues outside the CN tower were real birds, and that the rocks lining Lake Ontario we're covered with plastic wrap.
I've almost been thrown off the Rocky Mountains after fishtailing in a car during a blizzard.
I've driven through Oakville late at night and seen lights that seemed so different that it literally made my heart ache.
I've slept on several small islands on several small lakes.
I've canoed on several small lakes.
Driven across the ice of Rainy Lake.
I've sat under the lilac tree in the back yard in the first house I can remember living in, the only place I've ever felt stable and permanent, and the scent still haunts me.
I've walked through a park overlooking the city of Calgary, and could not think about anything but how lonely it is to live in a city that sleeps under a cold, white blanket.

All I want is something permanent, but I have commitment issues, and I'm unwilling to unpack.

This is the tangerine (machine)
Samantha Merritt


The Connection

Today is a day of great (maybe). Meet Douglas Spartan, a tall homely man in southern Kentucky, a good christian man. Today, he will die. But this isn't why today is great. Today is great because, unlike Doug, we know how to cut timber. It is no wonder the wonders of the world will waste at our hands, for we as websters will walk the walk, and talk the talk, and cut down these trees of old, for in this world, we do as we please, because we really, really, and sincerely, have a personal endeavour to destroy all walks of tree and when we win we will walk with wood waving way up high in the air, and we will mock like manatee, and move on with our lives.

Do not disregard your instincts,
-The Moth

P.S.: I am Erin Green.

This Rock is Rolling!

Okay, well I've been asking around and it looks like this dream of a communal friend-blog is yet to be dashed! So far we have at least four people who have expressed interest in joining this Web 2.0 party; Tanya, Erin, Fairen and potentially Dee! If you're reading this and you are one of the above you probably already know that there's an e-mail from BlogSpot inviting you to become an author. Before you say 'Oh god! I don't want my thoughts on the internet!' don't panic! You can update the blog with whatever you want, whenever you want. I think it would be cool if we could get people to update regularly, but there's no pressure. You can update a frequently or infrequently as you wish, or not at all even! That little exposition will probably go somewhere on the blog permanently, so don't worry if you totally skimmed it!

Today is one of the days that Erin is back in town, so me and he and Tanya went into the Courtneyside and took excellent pictures of dead fish then ate some dead fish in a more Japanese environment. I meant to go up town to attend a Book Launch and get a Library Card, but the Book Launch wasn't where I thought it was and the library needs you to have a parent signature. This was ridiculous and to be expected of the Comox Library. I guess I will never obtain a copy of Naked Lunch, Howl or any other books by the beat authors of ye olde dayse. Today was productive nonetheless though, I bought a copy of the new Bonnie Prince Billy album and one of Neko Case's 'The Tigers Have Spoken' and 'caught up' with T. Prinz and E. Green.

Second Post,
Travis Cannon


Let's Start This Madness!

Maybe this isn't Revisionist History...
No, this is certainly Revisionist History.
It's necessary nonetheless.
It's necessary for me to be heard and understood
even if it means revising the 'truth' and making it 'untrue'.

I don't love Jamie Stewart
the emotion I feel is just a profound respect
and awe at a person existing who can say so bluntly
every emotion I feel but can't express
and wish I didn't feel but can't help but express
and obviously ones I don't feel and could never express.
I don't pretend to understand
and I don't pretend to be unique in these regards.

No, You Rule.